


Layers

by mizdiz



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Headcanon, Season/Series 10 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 01:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21366214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizdiz/pseuds/mizdiz
Summary: He asks, "What if I don't want good?"[spoilers for s10ep6: bonds]
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 72





	Layers

**Author's Note:**

> note that these are spoilers for sunday's episode, so if you didn't see the early release and want to avoid stuff until the episode airs, turn back around, homeskillet

Daryl is in her room when she opens the door, and she doesn't startle at the sight of him even though she wasn't expecting him, because they don't surprise each other anymore. Instead, she gives him a mild expression as she lets the door close behind her.

"What's up?" she asks, leaning down to undo her laces.

"The Whisperer?" Daryl asks, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs spread wide like a man taking up two full seats on the subway. His elbows rest on his thighs, his hands dangling in between them, and he's rubbing the tips of his thumbs together mindlessly.

"Still won't talk. Michonne has a guard on him in the jail for the night. She wants to see if Lydia might know him," Carol says, toeing off her boots and lining them up alongside the wall.

"Don't want her gettin' involved if she don't gotta," Daryl mumbles, and Carol does a sad little upturn of her lip. It's bittersweet, seeing how protective and loving a dad Daryl is. She wonders—well, no, not wonders, because she knows it's fact—that if he had been her children's father they'd all still be alive.

"I told her you wouldn't," she says. "She said we'd discuss it at the council meeting."

"Alright," he says, an acknowledgement and begrudging acceptance.

"That's not why you're here," Carol says then. It's not a question, and Daryl doesn't answer it even if it were. A fleeting furrow goes across his brow as he ducks his head and watches his hands twiddle and fiddle idly. "What's up?" she asks again.

He doesn't answer right away, like he's still gathering all the words and putting them in order. While she waits, she pulls bobby pins from her hair and lets it cascade down her back. Daryl looks up in time to see her thread her fingers through the loose curls.

He keeps his eyes fixed where her hair rests at her waist when he asks, "What if I don't want good?"

"What?" she asks. There's a vulnerability wafting off of Daryl that makes her want to cross her arms to protect herself from it, but she keeps them down by her sides.

"You said there aren't many good ones left," he says, lifting a hand to his mouth to chew on a cuticle. He has the nervous habits of a little boy that serve to remind you that his roughness is just an act. Not that she needs a reminder. If anyone knows how soft he really is it's her. 

She says,

"I did."

And he says,

"What if I don't want good?" Like it'll make more sense a second time.

"Daryl, I don't—" but he cuts her off.

"Good is nice and all—real safe—but that's all it is. And what the hell's the point of that, you know? Putting in your all for _nice_ and _safe_? Why bother in the first place?"

"What would you want?" she asks, looping her hair around a finger like a teenage girl, because although her softness is buried deeper, it's still there. He thinks about it.

"Layers," he says after a beat.

"The hell does that mean?"

He drums an arrhythmic beat against his knee, before pushing himself up. Carol takes an involuntary step backwards so she's flush against the door. He steps just on the outskirts of her bubble.

"It means layers," he says. "A mix of all of it. It means being sweet and on fire at the same time. It's joking around when it hurts. Layers means someone who'll make you wonder if you wanna kiss the hell outta 'em or rip your own hair out, or maybe both at once."

Carol tastes acid in the back of her throat as her body dumps a surplus of adrenaline into her veins, like she were at the top of a damn roller coaster in the split second before the drop.

"That's a tall order," she says, managing to sound steady. "Wouldn't it just be better to go with good?"

"The King is good," Daryl says. "So you tell me. Is it better?"

"No." She doesn't even have to think about it. "Not at all. But it's easier."

"Easy don't mean better." She can hear his shaky inhale as he crosses the border into her space. They aren't touching, but they may as well be.

"Daryl," she whispers sadly. She ducks her head, but his hand takes a gentle hold of her chin and makes her look up again.

"You said I don't hafta be alone." He swallows, trying so hard to keep eye contact. "Am I alone?"

Carol's heart hurts so bad she could cry. 

"No," she says, feeling hollow. "But I'm not the one who should be keeping you company."

"You ain't good, Carol, but you've got good inside you—it's all part of the layers. And that's good enough for me."

If she cared about him at all she wouldn't let him kiss her, but all her internal strength combined isn't enough to make her pull away. She lets him breach that final distance, lips touching lips. She hasn't kissed someone and meant it in years, and who knows how long it's been for him, but the learning curve is overshadowed by the feeling of _home_. His lips are home, and she's been away for so long. Or has she ever even been here before?

They wrap themselves around each other as easily as tangling up a ball of yarn. Hands find stretches of bare flesh to explore, knees bump against each other, mouths explore jawlines and collar bones. He's sucking bruises into her skin like they're kids necking under the bleachers, and she's making breathy little sounds like she's the type of woman who makes noise during sex.

They find the bed in a choreographed tandem neither one prepared. They simply move fluidly in innate understanding. They roll around the double bed she makes every morning out of habit, and finally she doesn't have to feel lonely laying in a bed made for two.

Clothes are shed, tossed haphazardly on the floor. She's middle aged, her muscles hidden underneath bruised and battered skin. 

_Here's where the bullet went in. Here's where he burned me with the cherry of his cigarette. Here's my old C-section scar for a baby that's been dead and gone for years. _

He touches every inch of her like she's the best thing he's ever seen.

They fuck. Make love. Screw around. She doesn't know which one it is this first time. It isn't good, they aren't _good_ at it—it's layered.

There's anxiety with every new thing, which very often bleeds into the realm of excitement. There are pinpricks of pain where he nips at her, and the pain morphs into pleasure. She burns at the stretch of him, and instantly needs more. She's elated, and there are tears in her eyes, and she's so _mad_ at refusing herself this for so long.

He gets her there, and it's such a relief and a loss at the same time, because the build up is half the fun. She pets his hair through his orgasm, and is remiss to let him go.

It's not until well into the afterglow that Daryl speaks again. It's a funny thing for him to say, because it's obvious, and Daryl's never been one to speak the obvious, but she appreciates it nonetheless.

"I don't want good," he tells her. "I only want you."

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just have to sit at your desk at work and write a shitty oneshot on your phone ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> byee,  
-diz


End file.
